


Break, Blow, Burn, and Make Me New

by Euterpein



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge (Good Omens), Aftercare, BDSM, Blasphemy, Explicit Consent, Flogging, Impact Play, M/M, No Smut, Safe Sane and Consensual, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: They didn’t do this very often.He didn’tneedit very often, anymore. The last few years had changed things, had changedhim, and all for the better. He’d been soft and grown softer, here in the arms of his beloved.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094198
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020





	Break, Blow, Burn, and Make Me New

**Author's Note:**

> Day 8 of the 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge!
> 
> Full prompt: “That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend/ Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.”

They didn’t do this very often.

He didn’t _need_ it very often, anymore. The last few years had changed things, had changed _him_ , and all for the better. He’d been soft and grown softer, here in the arms of his beloved.

Crowley’s clever fingers finished affixing Aziraphale’s wrists to the St. Andrew’s Cross, held at a comfortable height above his head and cradled gently in fur-lined leather. He placed a kiss in the centre of Aziraphale’s back, just at the top of his spine, and wrapped warm arms around his middle. Aziraphale let his head fall back onto Crowley’s clothed shoulder as he was just held for a moment, soaking in the warmth and the gentle love Crowley was emanating like a beacon.

“You sure you want this, angel?” Crowley asked. His voice was tender, but it held none of the concern it might once have done. It had taken a while for Crowley to understand, for him to get over the fear that Aziraphale’s need was some signifier of an even greater hurt, but he had eventually understood. 

Aziraphale smiled, turned to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. It was an awkward angle, tied as he was with his body facing the cross and Crowley holding him from behind, but he managed, and it seemed to set Crowley even more at ease. “I’m sure, darling,” he said, for good measure. “I’m quite comfortable.”

Crowley huffed a laugh, giving him one last squeeze before he slid away from Aziraphale and out of his range of vision. There were some quiet sounds of items being arranged and he was back, this time with a hand pressed reassuringly to Aziraphale’s shoulder. With the other he ran a soft, supple leather over the bare skin of Aziraphale’s back, down his spine.

Aziraphale shivered, clenching and unclenching his hands in his restraints, but said nothing. 

“I’m gonna hit you,” Crowley said, low and quiet, close enough that Aziraphale could feel his warm breath ghosting along the back of his neck. He was still moving the leather in soothing passes down Aziraphale’s back, like the strokes of a paintbrush on a canvas. “Until you’re satisfied. This isn’t a punishment--you haven’t done _anything wrong_ , d’you understand?”

“I stole food from your plate at breakfast this morning,” Aziraphale felt the need to point out, turning as much as his limited range of motion allowed and shooting Crowley a rather cheeky grin. “And made you run to the store when I’d forgotten the milk yesterday.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but Aziraphale saw the tiny peek of a smile tugging at his lips anyway. “Alright, fine. You’re a _right bastard_ , fair enough. But I need you to tell me you understand that this is not a _punishment_ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sensed his sincerity, knew how seriously he took his role in this. He always had, ever since they’d started; he could forget himself completely when it was Aziraphale in charge, but whenever they traded their positions he was always so... _careful_. 

“I promise, Crowley,” he said, letting his own sincerity show. He swallowed. “And...”

Crowley paused in the gentle movements of his hands along Aziraphale’s skin. “And?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley kissed him for real then, turning Aziraphale’s head to press their lips together, seemingly trying to express all his love through the simple gesture. He kissed him for a few long, heavenly moments, then released him and stepped back once again. 

“Get ready, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale gripped the ropes binding his cuffs to the cross, lowering his head. “I’m ready.”

Crowley struck.

The first time they’d done this had been not long after the end of the world had come apart. There had been a few weeks of tender kisses, of difficult conversations and slow, careful understandings after that first passionate evening. Things had been fine for a while. They had been _wonderful_. But eventually the reality of the End That Wasn’t--his exile from Heaven, painful even if wanted, his renouncing of the will of God Herself--had begun to seep in. 

He had felt _guilty_ , almost. Untethered. He had craved something he could not have from Her, or at least was not likely to. 

He had craved _redemption_.

The first blow fell below his right shoulder. It made him gasp and jolt, rocking up on his toes in an instinctual need to get away despite the fact that he’d been fully expecting it. It stung more than anything; the light leather was designed for deep impact, not bite. He breathed through the sensation for a few moments, consciously letting his muscles relax and his body return to its position with both feet on the floor.

Crowley said nothing from behind him, though he was almost certainly watching closely; waiting to see if Aziraphale called out his word or made some other sign of distress. Instead Aziraphale settled back, leaning his head forward once again.

The next time, Crowley let the tails of the flogger whip around in the air a bit before striking, letting Aziraphale hear the sound of it and warning him when the blow was going to land. It hit exactly the opposite of the first one, on his left side. He was ready for it this time, though, only taking in a sharp breath at the impact before immediately letting it go. 

He was already starting to get that calm, floaty feeling he only seemed to encounter during this kind of scene. Crowley fell into subspace more easily; a few particular words, some careful touches, and he would melt into Aziraphale’s hands like butter. For Aziraphale it had never come as naturally, but that was alright. He preferred to have his wits about him as a general rule, wanted to experience all that Crowley was willing to give him when he felt a proclivity to take on a dominant role. Besides, everyone experienced submission differently.

Like this, though, it seemed to find him more easily. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was the pain (not something they engaged in often, admittedly) or the particular way Crowley held himself with such attentive care, but in the end it didn’t matter. A third blow rained down upon his back, a fourth, and his body and mind sang after each one.

Crowley kept his swings even, continuing to land blows on opposite sides of Aziraphale’s spine until the whole of his back fairly glowed with warmth. Aziraphale wasn’t sure when exactly he stopped reacting quite so much to each stinging blow, but after a while he no longer jumped instinctually away and started merely _feeling_ , letting the pain fade to a dull ache that seemed to sap all the thoughts from his mind and let him merely drift on sensation.

After some amount of time--Aziraphale had stopped counting the hits--Crowley’s hand was back on him. Aziraphale hissed slightly at the feeling of warm skin against the hot, angry expanse of his back, but melted when the feeling quickly faded.

Crowley ran his hand ever so gently down Aziraphale’s spine, surveying the damage he’d done with not a small hint of pride. “How are you doing, angel?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed, arching into Crowley’s touch like a lazy cat. He was hazy, but not altogether lost, and his voice was only a little slurred around the edges when he said “Quite well, thank you. You’ve gotten quite good at that, you know.”

“Practiced on a pillow,” Crowley admitted, which made Aziraphale laugh. “Ready for more?”

Aziraphale nodded, but still whined slightly when Crowley moved his hands away. It left him with an odd, intense feeling of being bereft that made him shiver despite the heat radiating from his back, and he clutched once again to the rope attached to his cuffs. 

It quickly became clear that the first round had been something of a warmup. Crowley landed blow after blow, not harder than before but with less time in between, making Aziraphale cry out after nearly every one. This was always the most difficult bit--the first volley had left his skin sensitive and the heavy endorphins of pain and subspace hadn’t yet set in, leaving him squirming and bringing hot tears to the corners of his eyes. 

Still, the worst did pass. Crowley spread his blows all the way from the safe zone over Aziraphale’s shoulders to the meat of his ass and thighs, expertly hitting his target without wrapping or straying, and the combined noise of sensation eventually washed Azirpahle under itself until the pain became--not _indistinguishable_ \--but reduced, somehow. Its bite removed.

Aziraphale let himself settle into this comfortable, warm feeling like he might settle into a warm bath. Every once in a while Crowley would approach him again. He would wrap Azirpahale up in his arms, whisper things that Aziraphale could hear but only half register. He would make sure that Aziraphale was still at home enough to respond, to use his word if he needed to, would suffuse the pain with sensations of pleasure by running his hands over Aziraphale’s aching back.

After a while, he could barely tell the difference. Crowley’s flogger, Crowley’s hands, they were all just sensation given to him in love and accepted with gratitude, each touching him as deeply as every other. He loved every moment of it.

The acrid taste of brimstone registered to his sluggish senses only a moment before he collapsed into Crowley’s waiting arms, his arms having been released from above him. There was a swirling in his vision and he realized that his eyes were full of tears, which he tried and failed to wipe away with hands that felt oddly foreign to him in that moment. “C-crowley?” he managed, after a few attempts. 

“I’ve got you,” Crowley said, hoisting Aziraphale carefully up. 

He was carried across the artificially-expanded room to their bed and lowered onto cool sheets, which made him gasp as they came into contact with his raw-feeling back. Crowley hushed him gently, carefully climbing onto the bed next to him and wrapping him immediately in his arms, covering him in the way he knew Aziraphale preferred after this kind of scene. It made him feel protected--it made him feel _loved_.

Aziraphale was still crying. The tears seemed to be coming even more now, actually. His stomach swooped and he felt terribly small for a moment, small and vulnerable, and he clung to Crowley’s reassuring weight over him until the feeling waned in intensity.

All the while, Crowley whispered to him. “I’ve got you, angel. You did so good for me, took so much, let me show you how much I love you, so good, love you so much.” He rubbed sweet circles into Aziraphale’s scalp, over the skin of his neck.

Aziraphale didn’t register most of the words. Returning from subspace was like coming up for air after a deep dive--chaotic and confusing, and dangerous if one tried to go too fast. Instead he let himself lose himself in the soothing cadence of Crowley’s voice, the delicate burn of his back. He let himself float gently with the warm rise of the current in his mind.

Eventually, he felt close enough to himself that he let his tacky eyes fall open. Crowley was watching his face closely, almost pensively. 

“Alright, angel?” 

Aziraphale smiled lazily, arcing up in a stretch just to feel the way that Crowley’s body was still reassuringly holding him down. “Quite alright, dear boy. Tickety-boo.”

“You must be, if you’re bringing out the ‘tickety-boos,’” Crowley said, smiling down at him. “Do you want me to move?”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale responded, mildly, settling himself more comfortably. “I’d like to stay just like this for a while, I think.” His eyes were drooping, closing of their own accord, sleep nagging at him as the adrenaline left his system.

Crowley huffed a laugh. “As long as you like,” he promised, “I’ll be here. You can sleep, if that’s what you want.”

“I may just.” Aziraphale’s eyes closed fully. He was completely, utterly relaxed. “Mmm, Crowley?”

A shift; Crowley turning his head. “Yeah, angel?”

“Thank you.” 

There was a pause, and another kiss was pressed to his forehead, soft as a sigh. “Go to sleep, angel,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale did.


End file.
